A Camelot Compendium
by Ellessaria
Summary: A home for my Merlin one-shots, each chapter a self-contained story. Chapter Six: "Concerning Merlin" - Tag to 4x02. As the knights all worry about Merlin after his deadly brush with the Dorocha, Leon has a revealing conversation with one of the boy's most loyal of friends. (Cover art by Wil1969)
1. Explosion

**Hello! So I should be working on my 'Musings' collection, but this little plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone, and so I unleashed it and let it have its way. *grins* This little piece is set sometime during season five, but there aren't any spoliers as such. I have a companion shot in mind from Arthur's perspective, which I hope to write and post in the next few days, but in the meantime, here is Merlin, suffering both tortuously and humorously in that way that only Merlin can.**

**I don't own Merlin. I'd be quite happy if that changed, though...**

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Merlin shot a fulminating glance of frustration towards the king, and the warlock had to use all his powers of self-control to stop himself from hurling across the room the goblet that was clutched so tightly within the grip of his fingers – fingers that were whitened with tension, and itching to clench into a ball of rage and let loose a punch on the man who was currently seated at his desk, as oblivious to the warlock's tumultuous thoughts as he ever was.

It was rare that the servant allowed himself to feel such rage, and he was unaccustomed to dealing with it. In fact, the only time he could recollect feeling such a primal anger had been when Balinor had been struck down before him, and his reaction had been so instinctual, that he'd never had the chance to even _think_ about controlling himself. The guttural growl that had accompanied the brief, but powerful surge of his magic had happened without thought, and only the collapse of the father he had only just begun to know had been enough to cool the flames of wrath that had allowed him to dispatch the murderer so swiftly.

It was an _entirely_ different situation now. His frustration had been building for some time, and wasn't the result of the shocking circumstances of a parent's death, but something that had been building slowly, starting in Merlin's stomach, spreading upwards through his chest, and was now residing in his throat, threatening to choke the very air from him.

The stupid thing was, that while Merlin had been aware of the tension that was slowly eating at him, and had become increasingly wary around the source of his fears, it had taken something ridiculously mundane to reduce him to the quivering mass of anger that he suddenly found himself to be.

The warlock's fingers tightened convulsively around the object that was almost burning in his hand, the goblet seeming to have absorbed the heat of Merlin's fury, and reflecting it tenfold back into the servant's shaking body.

"For goodness sake, _Mer_lin, stop pouting. It didn't hit you _that _hard."

Merlin was infinitely thankful that he didn't have the power to shoot flames from his eyes, for surely the glare he sent the king was as fiery as the words he was forcibly keeping inside his mutinous mouth.

Arthur rolled his eyes at his servant's continued silence, and possibly muttered something with the word '_girl_' under his breath. Merlin chose not to examine this suspicion too closely, though, for the hold on his temper was already far too precarious as it was.

Instead, the warlock sucked in his lips and bit his tongue, and stiffly lowered himself to his knees, picking up the array of crockery that he had dropped when he'd been startled by the sharp knock to the back of his head that was causing his current near loss of control.

And it really_ was_ ridiculous, when all was said and done, because Arthur had been throwing goblets at his servant's retreating form for _years_ now, and it had become almost a daily ritual. Merlin would wake the king, and the king would moan and grumble; Merlin would remind Arthur of his appointments, and the blonde would moan and grumble _again_. Then there would a short respite as the king ate his breakfast while Merlin bustled busily in the background, followed by Merlin repeating his earlier reminders of endless council matters and such, and Arthur resuming his moans and grumbles.

Really, you could almost set a clock to their firmly established routine.

So it hadn't been any different to any _other_ morning when Merlin had tripped over his own feet yet _again_, and the king had poked fun at his clumsy friend. And it hadn't been any different when Merlin had retaliated with a sly comment on the subject of sausages, royal bellies, and the usefulness of being such an excellent belt adjuster.

No, that had been perfectly normal, too.

Except, Merlin had still been savouring his parting quip when the king had launched his weapon of revenge, and the warlock hadn't been as nimble as he usually was. The pile of breakfast dishes he had been carrying had crashed to the floor, and it was only the doorframe that had stopped the warlock from following right behind them.

The servant could feel the lump forming on his forehead that had resulted from its abrupt meeting with wood, and didn't need to test the back of his skull to know that he had a small dent there. Small, trifling injuries, if truth be told, but he'd already had a headache that morning, and now his head felt like it had a contingent of knights running rampant through it, poking at him painfully with sharpened swords.

It came as no surprise to the warlock that these imagined knights all looked remarkably like a certain druid who had recently joined Arthur's exclusive inner circle of Camelot's finest, and it was actually rather disturbing to picture multiple Mordreds stabbing away mercilessly at him with their equally multiple swords.

For of course, Mordred was at the root of _everything_ that was causing Merlin to feel so strange at the moment, from the unfamiliar rage that always seemed to be lurking recently, to the nagging ache in his head that he had woken up with that morning that was so obviously the result of the stress he was under.

Merlin gathered the plates together from the floor and rose to his feet shakily, finally releasing his grip on the goblet to balance it atop the crockery in his hands. He was a little dizzy, he realised, and suddenly became aware of a stickiness that was trickling slowly down the back of his neck.

Which was a little odd, because surely imagined knights poking at him with imagined swords could not _possibly_ draw anything more dangerous than imaginary blood.

The warlock suspected that he might be a little concussed, but he was too angry to do more than brush that possibility aside. Plus, thoughts of those imaginary knights were feeding his rage quite nicely, and allowed him not to think too hard about how much he was acting out of character.

"What _are_ you doing?"

Merlin jumped, and dropped the dishes again, only this time they landed with a little more force. The warlock tilted his head and watched with a detached sort of fascination as the plates smashed, and the goblet spun for a few seconds, before rolling away from his line of vision and making its way back towards the man who had launched it only minutes before.

The king sighed, raising his hands in defeat.

"Honestly, Merlin, you have to be the most clumsy, inefficient, bumbling, _fool_ of a servant that I've ever had the misfortune to know. Sometimes I really don't know why I keep you around. There has to be a better way of spending my mornings."

And there was that urge to punch again. And a few more pokes in his head from several smug-looking Mordreds.

"Well don't just _stand _there, you idiot. Clear up that mess. I take it you _do_ know how to do that?"

Merlin scowled, and muttered angrily to himself as he bent once again to gather the crockery together, piling them carefully in order not to cut his fingers on the broken shards. The warlock was so engrossed in his task that he didn't hear the king approach him from behind, scoop up what was obviously his favourite tool of torment for the day, and tap it several times on the _same bloody spot_ that had already taken a battering that morning, if you please.

Once the imaginary Mordreds – who were now _laughing_, if Merlin was not mistaken – finished stabbing at his brain, he realised that he now had an array of dancing black spots clouding his vision.

Not to mention a stinging sensation on his fingers.

_Great_. He'd managed to cut himself anyway.

"Oh, for crying out loud!" said the king, rolling his eyes and pulling his servant unceremoniously to his feet.

At least, Merlin _thought_ Arthur had rolled his eyes. It was a little difficult to be sure when he was currently facing two kings, both of them not only rolling their eyes, but swaying their entire bodies, as if they were drunkenly dancing to a jaunty tune.

Both kings snapped their fingers in front of the warlock, and Merlin swatted at them impatiently. The two Arthurs then muttered an identical curse, but Merlin couldn't decipher it as several Mordreds decided to choose the exact same moment to poke a little harder with their swords, and Merlin couldn't help the pained groan that escaped from his lips.

"Will you _stop_ that?" he muttered, slapping softly at the side of his head, hoping it would dislodge all the tiny little druids, and make them drop those infernal swords.

He wasn't sure if it had worked, but the incessant poking seemed to lessen somewhat, and there now only appeared to be _one_ Arthur in front of him who, when he spoke again, said something that the warlock was actually able to understand.

"You really are a useless lump, aren't you?"

If Merlin had been in a better state of mind, he would perhaps have noted the small, but undeniable traces of concern in the depths of his friend's eyes, but Merlin was _not_ in a better state of mind, and all he heard were words that fanned the flames of the rage that had only temporarily cooled, and when the crockery fell to the floor for the third time that morning, it had _nothing_ to do with a goblet hitting the back of the warlock's head, and _everything _to do with the way Merlin had thrown them violently into the air.

The resounding crash seemed so much louder than the previous times, but perhaps that was because there was suddenly an ominous silence in the air. Merlin felt vaguely shocked by his own actions, but once again brushed away at the thought that threatened to lessen the fury that was swirling through his body.

A fury that was suddenly concentrated not on _Mordred_ – either the real one, or any of the many little versions hovering in his head, who were now crouched on their haunches, with their swords held up and poised ready to strike – but the man in _front_ of him, who was managing to look concerned, exasperated, and shocked all at once.

Honestly, Merlin hadn't thought the king even _knew_ how to express such emotions, never mind all of them at the same time. It was astonishing, it really was.

Arthur snapped his fingers again, and Merlin felt himself slowly blink.

"Anyone there?" drawled the blonde. "Honestly, Merlin, I sometimes wonder if you have a brain."

The warlock stiffened. Really, that was enough. _Quite_ enough, thank you very much.

"While _you_, Arthur Pendragon, clearly _do_ have a brain. That of a _gnat_."

"_Excuse_ me?"

"Actually, now that I think about it, maybe not even a gnat. A _flea_, perhaps?"

Arthur's jaw dropped, then locked back into place with a loud snap. The king's eyes darkened with temper, and once again, if Merlin had been in a better frame of mind, he might have chosen that moment to wisely close his runaway mouth and remove himself from the king's ire.

But, of course, he _wasn't_ in a better frame of mind, not least because twenty or so mini-Mordreds had dropped their swords _painfully _loudly in unison, and were now rubbing their hands together gleefully.

_Bloody druids._

"Brains of a flea," he repeated, warming to his theme as the fury ceased its choking hold on his throat, and purged itself through the warlock's lips in a vicious stream of diatribe.

"You are, without doubt, the most _oblivious_ person I know," ranted the warlock. "And you don't seem able to use _any _of the sense that you were born with! You never listen, you _never_ think before you speak, and you certainly never open your eyes, do you? And lets not forget that you never pause to _consider_ that throwing a heavy goblet at someone's head might – _just might_ – actually hurt! But _no_, it's all a game to you, isn't it? _Oh, I know, lets throw something at Merlin, it will be a laugh._ But it's _not_ a laugh. And it's not a _game_. It's actually quite serious, you know, far more serious than your stupid brain seems to think!"

Merlin paused to pull in a much needed breath and, spotting the item still clutched in Arthur's hand, reached out and snatched it from the king's unresisting fingers. Without pausing for thought, he hurled it violently to one side, and was satisfied to see the goblet leave a dent in something other than his head for once.

The king's wardrobe now sported a pleasing little blemish on its hitherto pristine exterior.

"Merlin, you just wilfully attacked the property of the king. That's punishable by a visit to the stocks at the very least."

Merlin slowly cracked his knuckles before thrusting them safely behind his back. The warlock was clearly unravelling – and _injured_, for crying out loud – and all Arthur could do was fold his arms, glare at his servant, and threaten him with further pain.

Perhaps Merlin was being _slightly _unreasonable, but honestly, while the stocks were hardly life-threatening, some of those not-quite-rotten vegetables _really_ hurt.

"Brains of a flea," muttered the warlock, shaking his head, then winced as the motion caused those dratted druids to pick up their swords and start poking at him again. Merlin rubbed his temples with both of his fists, hoping the grinding action would crush not only the pain, but all those annoying little Mordreds, too.

"Are you alright?" said the king, and finally, Merlin registered the concern in his friend's voice, and felt a wave of shame wash over him.

For of course, he wasn't _really_ angry about the whole throwing of the goblet thing, and his frustration with Arthur wasn't _really_ the king's fault, seeing as the blonde was completely unaware of the reason why Merlin was so stressed to begin with.

"M'fine," he mumbled, relaxing his fists, and ceasing to press them against his head. He ran his open palms over his face a few times, hoping to remove all the traces of anger from his features, and grimaced when he tasted blood.

"Look, you are _clearly_ no use to me like this," said the king firmly. "I need you to complete all of your usual chores, and while you generally perform them to a rather less-than-perfect standard, you at least manage to do them without leaving bloodstains everywhere. Take yourself off to Gaius, and sort those cuts out. You may return as soon as you're not in any danger of bleeding all over my floor."

Merlin nodded, and paused on his way out of the chambers to pick up the scattered fragments of the plates he had thrown.

"Leave them, I'll summon George," muttered the king gruffly, waving his arms dismissively, and avoiding Merlin's gaze.

The warlock couldn't help but smile a little as he left the room, as he saw Arthur pick up the goblet, slowly examine it, and then frown thoughtfully at the dent in his wardrobe.

Perhaps the king wasn't as oblivious as he'd thought.


	2. Epiphany

**Hello! Have a shot! This one is the companion piece to "Explosion", and while it could stand alone, you should probably read the 'chapter' prior to this one if you haven't already done so. And I'd like to add that while both one-shots were initially intended to be full of lots of lovely emotional whump, for some reason they went in an _entirely_ different direction. Odd how that happens, eh?**

**Anyway, hope you enjoy it!**

**I don't own Merlin. Or Arthur. But the goblet is definitely mine. *nods firmly***

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It was probably the worst kept secret in all of Camelot that the King was enormously fond of his manservant, and that the manservant was equally – if not _more_ – enormously fond of the King. It was just one of those things; like bread needing yeast to rise, or Sir Gwaine needing numerous trips to the tavern. Arthur needed Merlin, and Merlin needed Arthur. In fact, they were so often in each other's company, that to see one without the other was enough to make most people pause in whatever they were doing, and scratch at their heads.

The _second_ worst kept secret in Camelot was that the King and his manservant were completely oblivious to their feelings of mutual fondness, and would vehemently deny any such bond unless they were under extreme torture. (This was a proven fact, for Gwaine had once tried getting Merlin to admit to his brotherly affections for the royal blonde, and had only elicited a response after he'd strung Merlin up by the arms, and tickled the young man ruthlessly with a feather from a pheasant he had – ahem – borrowed from the castle's kitchens).

No-one had ever tried to torture the _King_, of course, as that might have caused a few heads to be chopped off, but it was nevertheless universally agreed that just as the two men in question shared a brotherly bond, they _also_ shared a stubborn streak roughly the size of a small dragon (or maybe a very large horse, depending on _who_ was doing the telling), and that if _Merlin_ only admitted his affections under duress, then clearly Arthur would react in the same way.

The King and his manservant were mostly oblivious to the affectionate gossip that circulated the city about them, and were blissfully unaware that the bond that they believed to be hidden was as about as obvious as the sight of Sir Percival trying to sneak through the city whilst dressed in a sumptuous pink dress. (This was _also_ a proven fact, for while Percival was a large man, he was as susceptible to the evils of too much ale as the next man, and, sadly, was equally susceptible to one of Gwaine's pranks).

Merlin, of course, was privy to several key facts concerning destiny and prophecies and the like, and when he was alone, was comfortable enough to acknowledge the affection he felt for the King. Arthur, on the other hand, was hampered when it came to admitting to the bond, mostly because he was completely in the dark about destinies and prophecies, and all that mumbo-jumbo (as the King would often describe such things), but also because admitting to such girlish sensibilities tended to bring him out in hives.

Not that he was scared. Or a coward. No, not that. He was just ever aware that, as the King, he was above such things.

So it would have come as an enormous surprise to the people of Camelot if they had known that the King was, at this very moment, exploring the very thought that usually caused him to scratch nervously at his arms. Not that he _could_ have scratched his arms, even if he wanted to, seeing as both of his hands were currently occupied with examining a goblet.

Or rather, _the_ goblet. The goblet that had somehow managed to cause confusion, guilt, exasperation, and several _other_ emotions that Arthur wasn't even sure had a _name_. He _sure_ as hell didn't know what they meant. All he knew was that there was a feeling of... _something_... swirling around in his stomach, and that this something was _definitely _something unpleasant.

The King initially tried to blame this feeling on the sausages he'd not long consumed; perhaps there had been one that was slightly raw, for example, or one that had been made with spoiled pork. There was even the_ very _slight possibility that he had over-indulged on the breakfast treats, but Arthur immediately brushed that idea aside, as it was plainly not the root of his present stomach ailment.

No, it wasn't the sausages. It was those strange... _whirly things_... floating around in his belly. Emotions. _Girly_ stuff.

Whirly things, indeed. Whirly things that had somehow been caused by his idiot manservant.

Merlin had exited the King's chambers several minutes ago, but Arthur was still rooted to the spot, completely befuddled as to what had brought him there. Everything had been perfectly _fine_ that morning; _nothing_ had happened that could explain the absolutely baffling events from the previous few minutes.

Merlin had awoken the king with the usual too-cheerful greetings, accompanying them with the somewhat torturous glare of sunlight blasting through the unveiled window.

No, nothing new _there_.

A little morning banter had then occurred, mostly because Arthur enjoyed taking out his morning grumpiness on a man who was, quite simply, _far_ too cheerful for the time of day to be anything other than _insane_. Arthur's day couldn't truly begin until he'd caused Merlin to frown, and thus make the servant a little more normal.

Well, as normal as it was possible for Merlin to _be_, anyway.

Arthur had eaten his breakfast, _perhaps_ consuming a sausage or three too many – honestly, if he wasn't supposed to _eat_ them, why put the ruddy things on his plate to begin with? – and his friend had flitted around the room, making the bed, clearing the laundry, and doing whatever else it was that the servant _did_ to make Arthur feel dizzy, for surely it should be illegal to move so quickly when it was still so early in the day.

The King paused, and made a mental note to consider a new law at the next council meeting, and then he continued his mental recollection of the morning's events.

Inevitably, the idiot manservant had tripped over his overlarge feet, and Arthur had grinned at the resulting scowl on Merlin's face, for it meant that the King's day could start in earnest. He'd tossed an insult across the room, and had waited eagerly for a response. Arthur was witty – or at least he liked to think so – but Merlin was more than a match for him. The verbal sparring between them had become as important a morning ritual as breakfast was.

Well, _almost_ as important, anyway. Couldn't dismiss the value of those sausages, after all.

But as the King started to realise just how important these daily bantering sessions truly were, he was visited with a notion that startled him into a muffled groan.

Damn. It _had_ been the sausages after all, just not in the way that Arthur had initially thought. Merlin's sharp jibe about the king's physique – it was _muscle_, and very definitely _not_ fat – had irked the blonde, and he'd hurled his empty goblet at the back of his servant's head.

And that was what had caused such a disturbingly odd scene to unfold. It was all so very _baffling_, and Arthur was still frowning with the bemusement of it all. He'd been hurling objects at his ridiculously goofy friend ever since Merlin had become his manservant. It was an established routine. It was _normal_. And, despite his friend's grumbling, Arthur _knew_ Merlin secretly enjoyed it, or why else would the man continue to provoke Arthur into doing it?

Perhaps, Arthur conceded, the goblet shouldn't have been his first choice for something to launch across the room, but there had been nothing else within reach, so it really wasn't his fault. And perhaps – and he squirmed a little at this thought – perhaps he _may_ have put a little too much force into his throw.

Only a little; not _too_ much.

Alright, he'd thrown the blasted thing with every bit of strength that he'd had. He'd never meant to _hurt_ the fool, though. Not seriously, anyway. Merlin was usually so swift that he managed to avoid anything more than a glancing blow, and a glancing blow was all that Arthur had intended, _truly _it was.

And yet, the King had a sliver of a memory flash through his mind, an image of something that might have been blood; not a large amount – he had dismissed the red trickle as some loose threads from Merlin's ridiculous neckerchief at the time – but it was enough to make the King think.

He tried to recall what had first alerted him to Merlin's odd behaviour – other than his _usual _oddness, that was – and realised that it had been when his servant had stopped – simply _stopped_ – moving. At the time, Arthur had assumed that hitting the doorframe – and again, he squirmed guiltily at _that_ particular memory – had momentarily stunned his dark-haired friend, and so he'd done what he _always_ did when inappropriate feelings of concern for a servant (who really shouldn't be anything _more_ than a servant, least of all a sort-of-best-friend) threatened to make him do something ridiculously stupid such as rush to the more-than-a-servant's aid.

He'd thrown his hands in the air, huffed a little, and then let loose a stream of exasperated insults towards the man who he'd both wanted to comfort and strangle at the same time.

And then he'd grabbed the goblet from the floor – the goblet that had a slight pinkish stain on it, now that he examined it closely – and had rapped it a few times on Merlin's head. Then his ridiculous manservant had cut his stupid fingers on the broken plates he'd been trying to pick up, so Arthur, unable to control his urge to stop his friend from hurting himself any further, had hauled the thinner man to his feet, covering his concern with what had become his legendary rolling of the eyes.

The other man had been disorientated, and the King once again found himself squirming at the memory. Merlin had looked really quite _ill_, and the servant's eyes had been clouded with pain and confusion. The blonde had immediately recognised the symptoms of a concussion, and had tried to think of a way to get Merlin to seek out Gaius, even while his stupid mouth had continued to spurt utter nonsense about how useless his friend truly was.

But even _that_ was still normal; Arthur had always preferred to disguise his softer feelings for other people with teasing little barbs of spite. It just wasn't quite the thing for a King to admit concern for others, after all. So it had come as a huge shock when his hitherto calm friend had thrown the armful of plates he'd still held furiously into the air.

It had come as an even _bigger _shock when the other man had not only insulted Arthur's intelligence – a _flea_, for goodness sake! – but had sent a bitter tirade towards the blonde; a stream of words that betrayed the level of confusion that his friend was obviously suffering.

For surely Merlin would _never_ have shouted at the King unless he was disturbed in his mind. Well, more than _usually_ disturbed, at any rate. The servant had always been cheeky, and completely incapable of conforming to the rules of propriety when it came to speaking to his betters – in fact, this was what had endeared the younger man to the King to begin with – but Merlin had never been stupid, despite Arthur's frequent observations to the contrary.

And then his obviously deranged friend had snatched the goblet that the King had still been holding, and had hurled it across the room with as much force as when Arthur had flung it mere minutes before.

The King had been shocked, but mildly impressed. He'd never realised that the waif-like body of his friend had contained so much strength. But the resulting dent in Arthur's wardrobe was clearly proof that his servant had hidden reserves of fortitude.

And if the goblet could cause damage to a solid lump of the finest oak in the kingdom, then Arthur was certain that it would _also_ cause quite a bit of damage to the less-than-solid lump of a skull that belonged to his clumsy friend.

Arthur quickly checked to make sure that the door to his chambers was firmly closed, then, feeling slightly stupid, but resolved to test his theory, he proceeded to tap his head a few times with the goblet that was still gripped in his fingers.

Which was possibly a mistake, because –

"Ow!"

He winced. Well. _That_ was enlightening. And really rather painful.

Arthur frowned at the goblet. Then frowned at the wardrobe. Then frowned at the goblet _again_.

Really, this wouldn't do. This wouldn't do at _all_.

Because if the King could feel a little dizzy just by gently tapping his head with the goblet, then just how bad did Merlin's abused skull feel like? It was altogether likely that his obviously concussed friend was still wandering around in a daze, probably forgetting about where he was supposed to be going.

The King sighed. He was going to have to find the man, that was all there was to it. It went slightly against his wish to appear aloof at all times, but there was no help for it.

Besides, he reasoned, he had every right to make sure his friend wasn't too severely injured. After all, the blonde needed to have a healthy manservant, did he not?

But before the King could take even a step towards the door, it was thrust open, and the object of his thoughts almost fell into the room in his haste to enter it so quickly.

Arthur rolled his eyes. And_ sighed_.

"Merlin, don't you _ever_ obey my orders?"

The servant – who was clearly still not feeling quite right, judging by the more-than-usual pastiness of his features – appeared to think for a moment, before answering.

"_Sometimes _I do," he said earnestly.

There was an awkward silence, when Merlin bit his lip, and allowed his gaze to wander, while the King wondered how it might be possible to apologize, without making it _sound_ like one. There were appearances to uphold, after all.

"I'm sorry I threw the goblet."

Arthur blinked. Because he was pretty damned sure he hadn't opened his mouth, so how on earth...

"And I'm sorry I said you had the brains of a flea."

Ah.

"And I'm pretty sure I shouldn't have shouted quite so much," his servant mumbled.

Well. Merlin was _apologising_. Wait. _Merlin_ was apologising?

"How much of a concussion do you have?" the King asked suspiciously.

Merlin shrugged.

"Because," continued the blonde, "I'm pretty sure you wouldn't be apologising unless your head was more than just a little bit..."

"Dented? Battered? Bruised?" said his friend helpfully.

"_Injured_."

"Yes, well... it just seemed like I should say something. You know, about the shouting. And stuff. And the throwing thing. Because... well, it really wasn't your fault."

"Of course it wasn't my fault," said the King, proudly lifting his chin. "And for once, I think that you're right."

"What?"

"For apologising, of course. It stands to reason. You were very obviously in the wrong, and one should _always_ apologise when one is in the wrong."

"Ri-ight."

"And one should _always_ apologise when one throws goblets around."

His manservant blinked owlishly.

"Are you apologising to _me_?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Merlin."

"Because it sort of sounded like you were."

"Then clearly your overly large ears do not appear to have very exceptional hearing qualities, do they?"

Arthur inwardly chuckled as his friend scowled and muttered angrily under his breath. Ah, _that_ was more like it. Merlin might be injured, but he was almost back to his normal self. Another burst of that strange _whirly _feeling in his stomach occurred, and the King managed to identify the cause this time, though he'd rather be strung up by his thumbs than have to admit it out loud.

_Fondness._

There. _That's _what it was.

His friend shook his head and rolled his eyes, before leaving the room without so much as a word. The King smiled as soon as the door closed, and he stared at the goblet in his hand for a few seconds, before walking over to the table and placing it gently down on the surface. As he did so, he made a vow; in future, The King of Camelot would never again use a goblet for anything more than it was intended for, and certainly would _never_ use it as a weapon.

_Sorry, Merlin._

After all, an apology was still an apology, even if it was a silent one.


	3. Choices

**Hello! Here's another shot. :) I've seen many fics tagging episodes 4x01 and 4x02, but I've yet to find one from _Lancelot's_ perspective, and as I watched those episodes again the other night, I was visited by the plot bunny again. *grin* I don't 'know' Lancelot as well as Arthur and Merlin, so I'm not sure how well I've managed to write him, but I at least hope I've done some small credit to him.**

**Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favourited this collection so far - you are all so AWESOME! *hugs***

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There are times when horrifying, nightmarish things come to pass, when you might feel utterly helpless, and are gripped with a terror so strong that your feet become rooted to the earth. Not everyone is unlucky enough to experience times like these, but those who _are_ unfortunate enough to do so, often recall the strange sensation of reliving all of their past in mere seconds; of seeing things that they had perhaps not seen before, and of a blinding sense of understanding suddenly filling their minds.

It is also said that, after going through such an experience, many people are forever changed; sometimes for the worse, if they allow fear and regret to guide them, and sometimes for the better, if they choose to take their regrets and turn them around.

Lancelot had already lived through such a time, after having witnessed his family and friends being slaughtered before his innocent young eyes. But even though he'd been little more than a boy, he'd chosen the second path; he'd chosen not to dwell on the bad, but to focus on a future that, if he worked hard enough, would be both fruitful and rewarding. For while the young man had been crushed with grief, and riddled with remorse for not fighting strongly enough for his family, he'd recognised that the strength of a young man – no matter how noble his intentions – was not enough to take down an army of murderers who were so intent on killing all who stood in their path. He simply wasn't strong enough.

But one day he _could_ be. All he had to do was work hard, and train harder; then one day – if he was fortunate enough – he would be able to join the ranks of the famous Knights of Camelot; the knights that had been a legend in his small village. The knights that were renowned for strength, nobility, and fearlessness; all qualities that the young Lancelot wished he'd had when his family and village was being attacked.

So Lancelot made a choice; he made a choice not to wallow in grief and despair, but to live his life with the strength, nobleness and bravery that he had _always_ aspired to have. To live a life that would make his family proud; and to live a life that would seek to eradicate the evil that had stolen his family from him.

He made a choice. He hadn't been strong enough to save innocent lives on that terrible day that took his youth away, but one day... one day he _would_ be.

oo0oo

Lancelot had always thought that experiencing the feeling of past memories flickering through his mind was something that would never happen to him again. All the tales he had heard over the years of the same phenomena happening to others all had a common theme; every single person had either been in mortal peril, or had witnessed something so traumatising that their innermost fears had rushed to their minds unbidden.

After the horrors of his youth, the knight had – perfectly reasonably – assumed that this was an event that would never repeat itself.

He'd been wrong. The scene unfolding before him was every bit as horrific as the scene from so long ago, only this time it wasn't only the friends he could _see_ that were in danger, but the _entire _kingdom of Camelot. In fact, it was altogether possible that the whole of the world was in peril.

Such was the evil of the Dorocha.

And such was the evil – which was somehow more terrifying than the Dorocha themselves – of the woman who stood before them. And the woman – the Cailleach – _was_ evil; even without taking into consideration the ghost-like face, and the deep wells of nothingness that were her eyes, the wrongness that radiated from her was enough to make the sturdiest of knights shudder.

And there was the inescapable truth that though the – _thing_ – before them was capable of calling back the Dorocha with a mere flick of her hand, she chose instead to inflict the icy abominations on the world, and leave them to their death and destruction.

Oh yes, she was evil. And as this realisation washed over Lancelot like a bucket of ice, he once again found himself visiting past memories, which were somehow over in the blink of an eye, yet slow enough at the same time to pick out things that hadn't quite seeped into his consciousness the first time. And even as he watched the scene in front of him unfold, he was visited with flashes from his past...

"It's not often we have visitors," said the Cailleach.

_Lancelot entering Camelot, intending it to be merely a short respite in order to heal from his wounds, but choosing to stay when Merlin had arranged a try-out for him for the longed-for position of Knight... Lancelot caught in a lie not of his making, but unwilling to let go of the chance he had of fulfilling his dream... Lancelot getting caught out in the lie, and being thrown in jail... Lancelot, breaking out of that jail, and joining the quest to kill the griffin._

_Lancelot, feeling pride at his success, and then coming back down to earth as he'd realised that it wasn't his strength that had killed the beast, but the whispered words of his newest friend. A friend that he knew he would never be able to betray..._

"Put an end to this. I demand you heal the tear between the two worlds," said the Prince, standing tall and fearless in front of the evilness before him.

"It was not _I_ who created this horror. Why should it be _I_ that stops it?" was the cold reply.

"Because innocent people are dying."

_Innocent people dying... because Morgana and her despicable sister had used the Cup of Life for the foulest of purposes... Arthur creating the first meeting of the reformed Round Table, asking for fealty that was freely given, and not coerced. Arthur jokingly informing Merlin that he didn't have a choice, and Lancelot being struck by the idea that the Prince didn't know how painfully true his teasing words actually were..._

_And Merlin, who would have chosen what was right and true even without the pull of his destiny... Merlin fearlessly facing not one, but two twisted sorceresses bent on revenge... Merlin thrown by a powerful spell with enough force to fell a lesser man, yet still refusing to give in, and saving his friends anyway..._

The Cailleach made a derisive comment, and let loose a laugh that was as far away from humour that it could possibly get, and even as Gwaine reacted to the pure evil of the creature before them, the Cailleach unleashed her spite and hurled the impetuous knight through the air.

"Is this the best you can do?" she taunted.

"I know what you want," said the Prince.

"_Do_ you? And are you willing to let me have it?"

"I'm prepared to pay whatever price is necessary."

_Lancelot, Merlin, and the terrifying presence of The Great Dragon..._

_"Arthur intends to sacrifice himself to heal the veil. It is my destiny to protect him; you taught me that."_

_"Merlin, you must not do this."_

"_Then I have no choice. I must take his place."_

The Cailleach beckoned the Prince towards her, her lips twisted into a mocking smile of triumph. Arthur was walking towards her purposefully; walking towards his death...

"_Forb fleoghe_."

The Prince was stopped in his path, and forcibly pulled back, lurching into the air and landing close to the unconscious form of Gwaine. Lancelot turned slightly, and met the frightened, yet resolute gaze of his friend.

"_When we get to the Isle of the Blessed, do you really intend to sacrifice yourself?"_

"_What do you want me to say?"_

"_I look at you, and I wonder about myself. Would I knowingly give up my life for something?"_

_"You have to have a reason. Something you care about. Something that's more important than anything."_

"So, Emrys, you choose to challenge me after all. Will you give yourself to the spirits to save your prince?"

_Choices... choices... it was all about choices..._

"It is my destiny."

Destiny... and _choices_. Lancelot choosing to go forth and fight for a better future; Lancelot, choosing to forsake his chance of becoming the knight of his dreams, unwilling to take the position that he felt he hadn't earned; Lancelot choosing to keep his friend's magic a secret, and vowing to himself that he would protect the young sorcerer, the man who protected all those that he loved, but yet had no-one to protect _him_...

Destiny and choices. Merlin had a destiny, and Merlin had made the decision to _embrace_ that destiny, choosing to willingly give his life for something that he believed in.

Lancelot didn't have a destiny, but he _did_ have a choice. And as he watched his brave young friend – the selfless, innocent, and_ incredibly_ noble Merlin – face the utter evil that was the Cailleach, Lancelot realised that he too had something that he was willing to give up his life for.

_Merlin, lying broken and still, but inspiring feelings of awe as he glowed gently under the moonlight, the sorcerer's almost ethereal presence filling Lancelot with peace._

"_The young warlock has great power, and a future that has been written since the dawn of time."_

It wasn't Gwen that he was willing to die for, though he knew his love for her would never leave him. And it wasn't Arthur, who he was fiercely loyal to, and proud to serve.

It was _Merlin_. He was willing to give up his life for _Merlin_, for Merlin had the purest of hearts, and was so very _important _to the future that was promising to be so bright. It was _Merlin_, who was so inherently _good_, that it was unthinkable that he should lose his life to something that was so thoroughly _evil_.

So Lancelot made a choice, and in doing so, he realised that his entire life had been a series of decisions that had been leading right to this moment in time. He realised that it didn't _matter_ whether he had a destiny or not, and it didn't _matter_ that he would not be around to see that promised future that he was so sure Merlin would help come to pass.

It didn't matter, so long as Merlin was able to accomplish his goal; and for the young sorcerer to do this, he needed to _live_.

And so Lancelot needed to die. It was really rather simple when it came to it, and Lancelot knew that he'd chosen correctly even as he walked softly towards the veil; soft enough not to alert his brave friend, who would no doubt try to stop him...

But not softly enough to avoid the cold eyes of the Cailleach.

"Perhaps. But your time among men is not yet over, Emrys, even if you want it to be."

Lancelot was but a footstep away from the veil, but he turned to look over his shoulder, knowing he had no time to say anything, yet unwilling to leave his life behind him without somehow trying to reassure the young man who would no doubt grieve deeply over the knight's decision.

And he smiled; not a smile that filled his face, but a quirking of the lips that somehow conveyed his last thoughts.

_I understand now, Merlin. I understand what it means to believe in something so strongly, that it is worth dying for. I believe in _you_._

Merlin gazed back at him, shock and pain filling his features, and Lancelot allowed his smile to reach his eyes before turning back to the veil, and proudly walking through it...


	4. Exposed

**So I honestly opened a new Word doc to work on the next chapter of 'Paranoia', but somehow this is what ended up on the page. I think it's _highly_ possible that my brain has overdosed on writing whump in the last few days, and it clearly rebelled when I asked it for more angst. Hence, my Inner Nut took over, and created this slightly twisted take on a reveal fic... I'd like to add that any questions on the subject of my sanity can be directed to my doctor. And any questions regarding the the suitability of using the term 'slightly twisted' in the description of this one-shot should be directed to my lawyer, as I can't answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me...**

**I don't own Merlin.**

* * *

Merlin was a very busy man, and most days found him rushing around doing various jobs for Arthur, Gaius, and any number of people who decided that the King's servant was the only person they could _possibly_ ask to do such-and-such a favour for them.

Quite apart from polishing armour, sharpening swords, avoiding maces, and strategically hiding sausages from the King, there was the collecting of endless herbs for Gaius (who, Merlin suspected, purposely chose those herbs that were furthest away from Camelot, thus ensuring Merlin would be out of the way for the better part of a day), delivering medicine to nobles and peasants alike, and the (another possibly time-wasting exercise designed to keep Merlin out of the way) disgusting task of de-sliming the leech tank.

Actually, Merlin was of the firm belief that his guardian had a bit of a secret life, for the old man certainly made sure that Merlin was kept busy enough not to snoop.

_Anyway_... between the chores for his King and his guardian – and all those other little jobs, like apologising to large angry men who suspected their wives of a little naughty behaviour (thanks, _Gwaine_), and consoling kitchen wenches after a doomed love affair (once again, Gwaine had a _lot_ to answer for) – there wasn't a lot of time left over for Merlin to do a lot of thinking. But when he _did _think, it was usually about the one subject that was _always _on his mind.

One day, Arthur was going to find out his secret. There was no getting around it, it was simply inevitable. And though Merlin had started off very much _wanting_ to reveal his alter-ego, he had recently begun to realise that it would perhaps be wiser (not to mention safer) for all those concerned if he kept his secret to himself. After all, even apart from the fact that it was going to shock the hell out of Arthur, the King was also going to be extremely angry; especially after all those times he had denied some of the frighteningly too-close-for-comfort accusations.

So, in the interests of being prepared, Merlin would often lie on his bed after another exhausting day, and conjure up various scenarios in which Arthur discovered the truth. He would then proceed to envision what Arthur might say, and in turn would compose suitable – and above all, _calm_ – responses to the King's possible words.

"_Why did you never tell me?"_

"_Well, my lord, it's not something that can generally be brought into a typical conversation."_

_That_ was a good start, for example. Or...

"_This is stupid. Why would you _say_ that?"_

"_Because I couldn't keep hiding anymore."_

Short, simple, and above all, truthful. _That _wasn't bad, either. Definitely better than...

"_Don't be ridiculous, Merlin. I would _know_."_

"_Well, sire, you're not exactly famed for being overly perceptive."_

Which, granted, hadn't been one of his _better_ ideas.

Still, over the years, Merlin had envisioned numerous potential conversations that would result from his Big Reveal, but never – _not once_ – had he thought of _anything_ that remotely resembled the situation that he now found himself in.

A situation that saw Arthur stood a few feet ahead of him with his jaw almost touching the floor; an expression which, if Merlin wasn't mistaken, wasn't unlike the one on his _own_ face.

And as they each stood staring at each other like a couple of frozen statues – statues that looked suspiciously like a pair of astonished kippers – there was also a disturbingly lack of conversation to be found.

There was utter silence, in fact; well, except from the odd '_um_' and '_er_' that Merlin suspected was leaking out of his gaping mouth.

There'd been a moment when Merlin had thought Arthur was actually about to say something; the King had slowly blinked – which had been somewhat of a relief, for surely a person wasn't _meant_ to stare for such a long period of time – and Merlin had held his breath. Thankfully, he'd quickly sucked in some more air when he realised he would be in danger of passing out from lack of oxygen _long _before Arthur would be capable of forming a sentence.

So they continued to stare at each other, neither of them willing to make the first move. Merlin began to twist the fingers currently linked over his chest, and Arthur once again blinked, this time adding a frown to his hitherto blank features, as he changed the angle of his gaze and homed in on Merlin's obviously nervous gesture.

And _still_, Merlin could _not_ think of anything to say.

It was just so stupid. Of all the ways to find out, this had to be the most banal. Merlin had just returned from one of his night-time wanderings, and had snuck past a sleeping Gaius (or what he _thought_ was a sleeping Gaius; the lump on the physician's bed had looked a little too _pillow-like_ to Merlin, but he hadn't explored his suspicions seeing as he was the _last_ person to throw stones about people having secrets) in order to get to his room and change into more Merlin-like clothes.

He'd got as far as removing the outfit that was so incriminating, and, standing in only his undergarments, was in the process of reaching for one of his trusty tunics, when he had heard something clang in the background. Of course, his immediate reaction had been to turn around with his hands raised... which had _definitely_ been a bad move on his part, for of course _Arthur_ had been the person responsible for the clang from moments before, and proceeded to point a shaking accusatory finger in Merlin's general direction.

"You..."

"Um."

"You have..."

"Er..."

And that had been the extent of their entire conversation so far, after apparently mutually agreeing that actions definitely spoke louder than words.

Only... now that the initial shock was beginning to wear off, Merlin was starting to think of all those conversations he had envisioned, and he found himself racking his brains for a way to make one of them more than just an imaginary discussion.

The trouble was, whenever he had pictured being discovered, he'd never imagined that he would be caught in the somewhat embarrassing state of almost-nakedness. And despite wanting to grab at the safety of his tunic and breeches, he found that he couldn't unfreeze his fingers from their locked position in order to cover himself more decently.

Merlin had always been on the wrong side of slender, and usually made a point of covering up as much of his body that he could. But since arriving at Camelot – where there was literally an _army_ of beefy knights, each of them roughly three times the size of Merlin – he had been even _more_ self-conscious about his less-than-muscular frame.

And now Arthur was staring at him as if he had grown an extra set of limbs overnight. So to speak.

Arthur coughed.

Merlin cleared his throat.

Arthur coughed again, and made a funny little gesture with his hand.

"Um...?" said Merlin.

"Ah... _clothes_."

"Oh."

Feeling heat rise in his cheeks, Merlin swiftly turned around and thrust his arms into his tunic, before grabbing his breeches and hauling them up his shaking legs. Once he was covered up again, he turned to face the King.

"That's still not right," Arthur muttered, causing Merlin to frown, and to hastily check that he hadn't done something so silly as leaving his breeches undone, or putting his tunic on back to front. Then –

"Oh!"

He patted his neck and searched the area for one of his neckerchiefs; the neckerchiefs that were such a huge part of his quirky little disguise. Spotting a faded blue piece of cloth, he reached for it and quickly tied it around his neck.

"Better?" he said anxiously.

"Well, you look more like _you_, anyway," mumbled the King.

"I'm still the same person."

Arthur raised a pair of disbelieving brows.

"No, really, I am!"

"Really."

"Yes! Well, I may have hidden one or two things from you..."

"You _think_?"

Merlin bit his lip, and waited for the sudden silence to be broken.

"So... how long?"

"Huh?"

"How long were you going to continue to hide this from me?"

"_Ah_..."

"I see. You _weren't _planning on telling me at all, were you?"

"Well, it did seem to be the better course of action, sire."

"Hmm. It appears that you're not as bad a liar as I'd previously thought. That's _not_ a compliment, by the way."

"I sort of gathered that."

"Quite _skilled_ in the art of deception, in fact."

"I'd like to think so, yes."

Arthur glared.

"And too clever by half, if I'm not mistaken."

Merlin averted his gaze and bit his lip again.

"So... not an idiot, then."

"No," he mumbled. "It's just another part of my charm."

"So."

"So?"

"What now?"

"Er... I don't know?"

"_Still_ ridiculous," the blonde muttered.

"Well to be fair, Arthur, you're not exactly giving me any clues here. I told you, I'm still the same person. What happens next is entirely up to you. Personally, I don't think anything has to change."

"You _don't_? You don't think that it changes _everything_? I thought I knew you!"

"You _do _know me!"

"Really?"

"Really! Just because I'm a-"

"No. Don't say it. _Please_."

"Arthur, _not_ saying it won't make it any less true."

"All those times you were accused, Merlin..."

"I know."

"All these _years_..."

"I _know_."

"And all along..."

"_Yes_..."

"All along... you really _were_ a girl."

And as the King left the room – his head shaking and his arms raised in exasperation – he sounded a little more shocked, but a lot less angry... and Merlin smiled.

Or at least, _Merlene_ smiled, anyway.


	5. Footsteps

**So I did that thing where I opened Word to work on _Paranoia_, and ended up writing a one shot instead. *shifty* I promise that _Paranoia_ will get ALL of my attention for the next couple of days, and there will definitely be one - if not_ two_ - chapters heading your way in the VERY near future (maybe even later this evening, who knows?).**

**Anyway, this is much darker than my previous (and somewhat loopy) one shot, and probably a little depressing, so be ye warned. It's my first attempt at a future 'reunion' story - and probably fits quite well as an extension to the ending of my first Merlin multi-chapter fic, now that I think about it. Hopefully it's full of those lovely feels that I love so much, but I never really know if my stories will come across as I intend them to, so... *crosses fingers***

**I don't own Merlin. Which is _grossly_ unfair, as far as I'm concerned.**

* * *

It often occurred to Merlin that footsteps were so much more than the placing of one foot in front of another. The somewhat mundane action of walking was something that not many people pondered upon, he suspected, but it was something that played on his mind almost every day.

Some days – those ordinary days when nothing exciting happened, and life was almost _normal_ – he would think no more of his feet than any other person would. They were just _feet_, after all. But other days, Merlin would find himself looking at them, and he would question the direction they were taking him.

The first time he'd caught himself thinking of his feet in terms of almost being a separate being, was when he'd stepped into Camelot. He'd been young, innocent, and so full of hope that there had been a spring to his step that would have rivalled even the most _excited_ of children. The sights and sounds of the city had overwhelmed his country sensibilities, and he'd been unable to hold back his exuberance at the thought of living his life in such a colourful place.

And then his footsteps had faltered at the sight of a man being put to death; his feet had clung to the floor beneath them, trying to anchor themselves to something that was solid, for his world had suddenly begun to shake, and he'd felt like he was going to topple over from the force of it.

His feet had almost turned direction then, wanting to carry him all the way back to Ealdor – to _safety _– but something had held them in place. Something pulled at them, gently coaxing them to continue on their current path.

And so his footsteps had taken him further into Camelot, leading him to a man who would become almost a father to him, and _also_ to a man who would become his brother. It could all have _easily_ been so different; he could have obeyed his feet and ran all the way back home. He could have allowed himself to be carried back to a simple life.

But he didn't. He'd moved forwards instead of back, and this was why Merlin often thought of his feet; feet that really _did_ appear to have a mind of their own.

There were many times over the following years when Merlin would pause and consider those strange-looking body parts that were attached to his legs. He would curse them for their clumsiness; for tripping him up and making him look the fool. He would rub them wearily after a particularly long day, trying to ease the aches and pains; and he would urge them to move faster in times of danger.

Sometimes he would beg them to be quiet as mice; those times when he needed to remain hidden, those times when silence and stealth were essential. Times like when he had tried to help Freya...

He didn't like to think about Freya. It was too painful, too _unjust_, what had happened. His footsteps had echoed every single emotion that Merlin had felt during those painfully beautiful days. The light, almost _skip_ of his feet when he'd first realised that he was in love; the slow and wary steps as he'd tentatively offered his help, love and protection to the woman who'd gripped at his heart so swiftly. The nervous, excited shuffling of his feet as they'd made plans for their escape; and the heavy, slow footfalls of despair as he'd carried his love to her death.

No, he did not like to think of Freya.

Nor did he like to think of numerous _other_ times when his feet had taken him places where he'd had no wish to go. The steps that had moved him forward to stop Arthur sacrificing himself to the Other World; the steps that faltered when he'd seen Lancelot walk the path that _Merlin_ was supposed to have taken.

The steps that had led him to a druid who would fill his mind with nightmarish visions of Arthur's death; and the steps that had taken him away from his King at the time when Arthur had needed him most. The steps that had seen him carrying his friend to his final resting place; steps that were heavier even than those that had plagued him when he'd said goodbye to his beautiful Freya.

Now, hundreds of years after these events had shaped his fate, hundreds of years since his life had been all colour and light, his footsteps were as weary and grey as his life had become. Every day that he walked past the haunting island of Avalon, he would feel as if his feet were glued to the floor, every step a struggle to take, every lift of his feet that dragged him forward pulling another small fragment of hope from his heart. Because the more the world around him changed, the more his life stayed the same.

And he was tired, so tired. Weary of waiting for something that showed no signs of happening, even after all the long years of patience. His feet were long past the ache of a hard day's work; they were worn to the bone, centuries of wandering having taken their toll.

The day when things changed began like any _other_ of the days that he had awoken to far more often than any other person had any _right_ to experience. He'd been gently pushed from his dreams of the past, slowly becoming aware that he was not in Camelot after all, and that Arthur, Gwen, Gaius, his mother – and everyone else he still missed so deeply – were no more than poignant ghosts in his memories.

He'd dragged himself reluctantly from his bed, had quickly showered and dressed, and shoved his feet ruthlessly into a pair of boots; boots that were so similar to the ones he had worn in his youth – worn, a little grubby, and so old that they moulded themselves comfortingly to him.

After grabbing an apple to gnaw at on his habitual pre-dawn walk, he'd set off on the familiar path that had been his daily route for several years. He followed the lane from his small cottage, and kept to the narrow road that led to the nearby motorway. Then, with the shelter of hedges that obscured his view of his surroundings for almost the entire length of his walk, he continued to place one foot in front of the other, noting the absence of a trail in his wake, and mourning the arrival of concrete so many years before. The cold, hard stone beneath his feet allowed no trace of his footsteps to show - like they'd never occurred; like they'd never even existed.

Like he sometimes felt that Arthur, Camelot, and magic itself had never existed.

It was all so _disheartening_; such a drag on his weary soul, pulling him further into the despair that had gradually deepened over the years until it had almost utterly consumed him. _Almost_. But not quite. And it was that _not quite_ that kept him moving; kept him doggedly lifting his feet time and time again.

Only today it was different. Today he felt an echoing of that excitement that had filled him on that day so long ago, when he had first laid eyes on the city that would change his life.

It started in his stomach; that faint, fluttering sensation of nervous apprehension. Then the feeling moved up to his heart, making it beat just that little bit faster. He found himself breathing deeper, and fancied that he could smell the magic that his senses were picking up; the scent of wonder, hope, and a tentative joy.

When the hedges cleared and Avalon came into view, he paused as he always did, though this time he avoided looking at the feet which persistently tormented him with their daily need to take him past the source of his melancholy. Instead, he allowed his gaze to lift, and he turned to face the column of stone that represented his reason for living.

And Avalon glowed. Not brightly, like the burning haze of a midday sun, but the soft, muted glow of something magical; a glimmering silver that shrouded the island with a mystical light.

His feet once again did that change of direction that was somehow against his brain's command, and he found himself taking increasingly faster steps towards the shimmering glow of the island. The concrete beneath his feet melted away, becoming the long missed softness of grass mixed with mud. The hair and beard of his elderly form blew around his face, obscuring his vision now and again, making him brush away at them impatiently. Without thinking, he slowly blinked, and the years of his features melted way just as magically as the concrete had moments before.

The lake came into view, and the silvery glow became brighter, skimming the water's surface so that it rippled with light and beauty. Merlin's feet carried him on even further, and soon he was close enough to see the boat that was hovering on the edges of the lake; a boat that was centuries old, yet still looked pristine.

Merlin stopped for a moment, and fought against the almost itching sensation in the soles of his feet; they were eager to continue their journey, but he was so scared of being disappointed; terrified that his brain was playing tricks on him, that his magic had finally addled his brain after so many years of waiting.

The silver light of the magic gathered together to form a spotlight over the gently swaying boat, and reflected back tenfold from something contained within. Something silver and gold; something that had been given to the lake of Avalon shortly before Merlin had relinquished Arthur into its care...

_Excalibur._

Merlin closed his eyes, not daring to believe, and he let instinct take over. He took a few steps forward; hesitant, faltering... ready at any moment to turn back and take flight, to run from the very real possibility that in his despair, he had conjured himself an impossible ending to his years of loneliness.

And then his foot gently collided with something, and he stopped. He heard a dull thud on the ground beside him, but could not find the courage to open his eyes and see what was in front of him. His other foot connected with whatever it was that had stopped his nervous walk only moments before, and he felt a gentle pressure on his shoulders.

His head dipped, and he frowned, eyes fluttering beneath their lids; too scared to open them, yet unable to keep them from doing so. At first he could not see anything beyond the moisture that was clouding his vision; there was something silvery, and something brown, and in the background there was a fuzzy green that he realised must have been the grass that he was standing upon.

The brown and silvery _somethings_ became clearer, and they morphed into two pairs of feet that were standing toe to toe, inches away from the fallen Excalibur, which was lying discarded on the dew-covered grass that surrounded them.

Merlin raised his eyes inch by agonising inch, not daring to blink – not daring to _breathe_ – and absorbed all of the details that fairly screamed at him, telling him that he was not imagining things, that Arthur was here – _finally_ here – and that he could start to _live_ again.

The shine of the armour, the sturdiness of Arthur's body, the strength of the grip on Merlin's shoulders; all things that should have told him that he was not dreaming, that this _was_ real.

But he still could not believe it.

And then his eyes met the blue of his friend's, and the glow of affection in them was enough for Merlin's eyes to close again, and for him to pull in a steadying breath.

"Are you real?" he whispered.

His question was met with silence, and he swayed on the spot at the weight of his disappointment, only to find himself steadied again by the fingers that still gripped his shoulders; fingers that gave a reassuring squeeze before firmly spinning Merlin around.

Surprised by the move, Merlin's eyes flew open in time to see Arthur grab Excalibur from the floor, and rest it casually over his shoulder. Then the former King of Camelot beamed at him, and flung a brotherly arm around Merlin's shoulders, encouraging him to walk away from the lake that was still shimmering with that wonderful silvery light.

The King and his friend walked slowly away, their steps unhurried, and their mirroring expressions of peace rivalling the glow of the magical lake. Merlin glanced over his shoulder, and felt his face stretch into a wonderful, heart lifting smile.

"Look, Arthur," he breathed.

The King followed the direction of Merlin's gaze, and frowned for a moment, before an answering smile of understanding settled upon his features.

Twin sets of footprints were imprinted on the sodden earth, and the sight of them was the final proof that Merlin needed to finally believe what his heart hadn't fully trusted. Merlin's footprints, no longer invisible on cold, grey stone, but blindingly obvious against the muddy grass, and perfectly parallel to the echoes of Arthur's sturdy steps.

Footsteps. Such simple things; yet so much more than the act of placing one foot in front of the other; Merlin didn't think he had even seen anything more beautiful in his life.

"Come on, Arthur" he said softly. "Let's go home."


	6. Concerning Merlin

**This is dedicated to Wil1969 from The Heart of Camelot, who created the cover art for this 'compendium', as well as my 'Musings' collection, and also the stunning cover art for 'Said and Unsaid'. This is a tag to 4x02, and hopefully I've kept it close enough to canon to make it believeable as a missing scene from the episode. This is Leon's POV of the events in this episode, and there's some interaction with our favourite drinking buddy, Gwaine. Hope you enjoy!**

**I don't own Merlin, or any of the knights. Which kind of sucks, but there we are...**

* * *

The mood was sombre as the group of men entered the ruins of an old fortress. Everyone was lost in their own thoughts, the seriousness of the quest weighing on their minds. The subject hung heavily in the air, but none of the knights were eager to speak on the matter, perhaps under the impression that keeping their lips sealed would lessen the very real threat that they were all facing.

Leon had been keeping a watchful eye on Arthur for the entire duration of their journey; he'd known the Prince since childhood, and was perhaps the most familiar with the young royal out of all the knights in Camelot, and particularly amongst the small group that had undertaken this, their most perilous quest, to date.

The Knights of Camelot were large in number, and Leon was on friendly terms with them all, despite his somewhat elevated rank amongst them; and regardless of the longevity of his tenure as knight – and the familiarity with the knights of nobler ranks in the army – he admitted to an extra fondness for the slightly ramshackle group of men that he was currently riding with; men who, despite the lowly circumstances of their births, were some of the finest men that Leon had ever fought with. He'd long since decided that nobleness and courage were not predetermined by the social status a man had been born to; peasants were just as likely to perform astounding acts of bravery as the most high-born of men. The men surrounding him at the moment were proof of this, and it bothered Leon that such fiercely loyal – and _good-hearted_ – men were so clearly struggling to deal with the recent events; not least because Leon fully empathised with their feelings of helplessness.

They'd all been nervous as they'd set out on this journey; they were toughened, seasoned warriors, but the Dorocha were things that could not be fought with strength, or the cold bite of steel, and all were fully aware of this fact. There'd been a strained atmosphere since they'd left the city of Camelot, lacking the usual revelry and banter than generally accompanied them when they travelled in such a small number.

They'd become good friends, this inner circle of Arthur's most trusted knights. The Prince treated them all as equals, and it had bred a closeness that really wasn't the norm when it came to a member of royalty and his soldiers. It was this closeness that allowed Leon to know his Prince perhaps better than even the _King_ did.

It was _also_ this closeness that made Leon understand better than most that, despite everyone being worried about Merlin, Arthur was clearly the most distressed by the events from two evenings before.

Leon closed his eyes and sighed; they'd all been avoiding the subject, but everyone was thinking the same thing; Arthur's long-serving manservant was dying, if not dead by now. The Dorocha spared no-one, least of all a commoner, whether he was servant to a prince or not.

The boy – for despite Merlin having passed his majority a year or two ago, Leon still thought of him as that innocent lad who had idiotically challenged the son of Uther all those years ago – had stunned _everyone_ with his incredibly selfless act, and all were feeling the guilt from it. By rights, Merlin shouldn't have been there; he was a _servant_ – a trusted and loyal servant, yes, but still only a servant – and servants generally didn't follow their masters on dangerous quests without so much as sword to aid them.

But Merlin wasn't an ordinary servant, and nobody even _questioned _it anymore when the boy joined the ranks of knights on their various outings. He was almost, in fact, an honorary knight, for while he perhaps lacked the sword skills and brawn usually found in Camelot's army, he'd always been fiercely loyal, and was braver than most people gave him credit for.

Actually, Merlin was a bit of an enigma to Leon; he was friendly enough around the experienced knight, and Leon was certainly _fond_ of the boy, but Arthur's servant was a curious mixture of open honesty, and a slight reserve. There had been many times that Leon had caught a contemplative look on the boy's face, and there was no doubt in his mind that Merlin used his brain far more often then he let on.

And there was the steadying influence on Arthur, of course. Despite Merlin's almost legendary _childlike_ character, it was perfectly clear to Leon that the boy had been a positive addition to Arthur's life. In fact, it was mostly because of Merlin that the tightly-knitted group of knights who were closest to the Prince were even knights at all, for none of his fellow companions were of noble birth. And Arthur's blossoming romance with Guinevere was probably down to Merlin as well, for the boy had befriended the Lady Morgana's personal servant _long_ before Arthur had begun to pursue her.

"Leon, we'll set up the fire over there," said Arthur, pulling Leon from his thoughts. "The area is large and open, so we'll have a clear view of anything that may attack us during the night."

The knight looked to the area that Arthur pointed at, and nodded.

"Gather the others and prepare the area," continued the Prince. "I'll see to the horses."

"My lord, Elyan can see to the horses, you should stay with the group."

"I'll be fine. Besides, I'd like to get a clearer picture of the surrounding area; it will be dark soon, so now is as good a time as any, and I can see to the horses at the same time."

"Of course," Leon nodded, and watched with more than a little concern as the Prince walked away. He had no doubt that tending to the horses was merely an excuse. Arthur had already admitted his deep concern for his manservant; it was obvious that the man wanted some time for himself.

"Should I go with him?" asked Percival, who had been lingering close enough to hear Arthur's intentions.

"We'll give him a little time," replied Leon. "But no more than a half hour. Keep watch though, Percival; as soon as the light begins to fade, we will go after him."

The other knight nodded, and joined Elyan, who was busy with building the fire that was so essential for their survival. Leon turned slightly and scanned the area slowly, searching for the last member of their reduced group. Gwaine was leaning against a crumbling wall, gazing through a window broodingly. He had an apple in his hand – something that was a familiar sight with this particular knight – but the spherical fruit was still perfectly formed.

Leon debated whether he should leave the other man to his thoughts, but decided to go with his instinct, and approached the knight with strong steps, removing his gloves as he did so.

"Not hungry?" he asked.

Gwaine's eyes flickered towards him, and he shook his head.

"Not really."

"Lancelot will do all that he can, you know."

"I know."

Leon sighed, and joined the other man in his perusal of the scene outside. Arthur was visible in the distance, and even from their somewhat limited vantage point, he could see how worried the Prince was.

"If the worst happens, he's not going to take it well," said Leon unthinkingly.

"If the worst happens, I should think that we're _all_ not going to take it well," said Gwaine, his frown deepening as he gave Leon a somewhat accusatory look.

"I'm fond of the boy, too, Gwaine," he said sincerely. "But Arthur will take it the worst. Merlin put himself at risk because of _him; _that's a hell of a burden to bear."

"He's always been ridiculously loyal, the stupid twit," said Gwaine, shaking his head. "I've never seen _anyone_ as devoted as that boy is to Arthur; frankly, I think he's crazy, and I've told him so plenty of times. Arthur is a decent man – as _Princes_ go – but Merlin takes his loyalty to extremes. Jumping straight into that thing... the stupid, _crazy _idiot."

Leon was tempted to scold the man for his almost disloyal words – it was no secret that Gwaine served Arthur with equal parts loyalty and ridicule – but Leon couldn't deny that Gwaine had been a welcome addition to the knights. He was perhaps a little too fond of ale, but he was always fit for battle, and his humour had added a much-needed levity to what could sometimes be a serious way of life. Looking at the man beside him, though, Leon was struck by the seriousness of his features, and he realised something that he had not picked up on before now; Gwaine would protect the Prince the same as any of the other knights, but he wasn't bound by the same motivation that the rest of them had.

"You stayed because of Merlin, didn't you?" he asked.

Gwaine raised an eyebrow.

"When you first came back," Leon clarified. "I don't doubt your good intentions, but you did it as much for Merlin as you did for Arthur, or even Camelot."

"Merlin's a friend," Gwaine shrugged.

Leon stared at him for a few moments.

"You're as loyal to Merlin as the boy is to Arthur, aren't you?"

"Given the same situation, I would jump in Merlin's place just as Merlin jumped in _Arthur's_ place," he said swiftly. "If _that's_ what you mean."

A few seconds of silence passed as Leon absorbed the words that somehow didn't surprise him.

"He's a funny boy," he remarked. "I don't think I could name a single person who doesn't like him, despite his general clumsiness, and his odd ways."

"Well, he's a likeable chap."

"Yes; yes, he is."

Gwaine rolled the apple in his hand several times, and took a bite out of it, chewing slowly as he sorted through his thoughts.

"The thing with Merlin, is that he sort of gets under your skin. You spend some time with him – a few tavern brawls, a dangerous quest or two – and you get used to his ways without even realising it. You expect the mishaps, you poke a little fun, and you get to know just what you need to do to get a rise out of him. And he takes it all in his stride; he never gets offended, and he never fights back. And he's actually wise under all that idiocy; he listens to what you say, and takes the time to really _think _before he answers you. So you end up trusting him."

Having never heard Gwaine talk so seriously before now, Leon was already a little taken aback, but the sincerity of the other man's words surprised him beyond measure. He leaned against the window opening and regarded the knight closely, for it appeared that Gwaine hadn't finished revealing his thoughts.

"He's like it with everyone, you know. He doesn't see princes or knights, peasants or servants; he sees _people_." He waved the apple around vaguely, his forefinger pointing towards Leon. "That's why everyone likes him. You can't _help _but like someone like that. He's a good lad... he's got a good heart."

Leon pondered the words for a moment or two, then nodded, smiling to himself a little. Everything Gwaine had said was perfectly true, and it actually saddened him that he'd never taken the time to get to know Merlin a little better.

"But the _really_ big thing about Merlin, is that he's full of surprises," Gwaine continued, his eyes burning with what Leon could only describe as a fierce pride. "He'll laugh, and he'll joke; he'll poke fun at Arthur when it's needed, and he's not above a sly comment or two about the rest of us, either. Most people don't take him seriously; they see him as someone to laugh at, albeit a _fond _sort of laughter. But when it comes to it, he's probably braver than the lot of us put together. Put him in a sticky situation, and he's a scrapper. Tavern brawls, army of undead knights, it doesn't matter; he'll come out fighting like the rest of us. And he's proved that time and time again, long before he did what he did the other night."

"Gwen regards him very highly."

Both knights turned at the voice, and were surprised to see that Percival and Elyan were sitting by the newly made fire, and were close enough to have heard the conversation about their mutual friend.

"She's always telling me to keep an eye on him," said Elyan. "Said he's the best friend she's ever had, and that she worries for him whenever he's out with the knights."

"Lancelot values him highly, too" added Percival. "We spoke at length about the boy during our journey to help Arthur. I'd wondered who would cause Lancelot to drop everything at a moment's notice, and run off to what could have been his death."

"What did he say?" asked Leon curiously.

"That's the odd thing," replied the large knight. "He just said, '_It's Merlin'_. Like that was explanation enough. I tried to get more out of him, but he just said that I would understand when I met the boy. It was as clear as day that he thought of him as a brother, though."

Gwaine snorted.

"Lancelot was right. It really is the perfect explanation. _It's Merlin_."

The mood lightened suddenly, and though they were all still worried, they were able to face the evening ahead with a little more hope. As Leon had said, if anyone could help Merlin, it was Lancelot; and there was no use worrying over it when they could do little to change the situation. They just had to trust that their fellow knight would get Merlin to safety.

Leon noted the dip of the sun in the sky, and gave Percival the nod to bring Arthur back inside. Gwaine strode over to Elyan and joined the younger knight on his makeshift bench, while Leon, after checking that Arthur was indeed following Percival back to the ruins, took a seat beside them.

Arthur was still very quiet when he returned, and gave only the barest of responses when Percival beckoned him to sit closer to the fire. The group was mostly silent, except for when Gwaine decided to ruffle everyone's feathers by removing his boots, and, smirking slightly, following his action by taking off his socks. Some of the banter that had been sorely missed on the journey so far made a return, and amongst the general moans and groans at the distinctly unsavoury smell of Gwaine's feet were a few smiles, and even a chuckle or two.

They all heard the noise, but it was Arthur who reacted first.

"Quiet," he said, his head turning towards the sound.

They all rose, their amusement instantly forgotten as they picked up their swords and readied themselves for a possible attack. It was hard to say who was most surprised when Lancelot walked calmly through the crumbling arch that served as an entrance to the room they were occupying.

"Lancelot?" said Arthur, sounding confused, hopeful, and worried all at once. "How's Merlin?"

"Bad news," replied the man, and it seemed to Leon that everyone present lost their breath for a moment. But then Lancelot quirked his lips, and added, "He's still alive."

There was a chorus of '_Merlins!'_ from everyone, as they each took in the astonishing sight of the man who had been near death the last time they'd seen him, and the boy was quickly met with hugs, handshakes, and pats to his back.

Arthur was strangely quiet, and waited for everyone to finish fussing before he greeted his friend, and Leon pulled the other knights away to give the Prince a chance to speak to the boy in relative privacy. Lancelot was smiling widely as he walked to the fire, his hands stretching out towards the warmth of the flames. While Percival, Gwaine and Elyan continued to chatter amongst themselves, Leon approached the fire.

"It's amazing," he said, surprise colouring his tone. "I thought he wouldn't survive. _No-one_ survives the Dorocha."

"I'm as surprised as you are," replied Lancelot. "But who am _I_ to question it? I'm just glad he's alive."

"But how? _How_ did he survive, when no-one else has?"

Lancelot pulled his hands back from the fire, and sat down on the log that Leon had not long vacated. He stared at the flames for a few moments, then shrugged his shoulders.

"It's _Merlin_," he said simply.

And as Leon turned, watching as Arthur smiled at the boy and placed a brotherly arm around his shoulders, Leon couldn't help but shake his head, with a smile to match Lancelot's stretching his lips.

Percival had been right; there really _was _only one explanation that made sense when it came to this boy who had endeared himself to all who knew him.

_It's Merlin._


End file.
